My Own Asylum
by razor840
Summary: One of the only good things about being stuck in the nut house is that talking to your imaginary friend barely registers with anyone. Eventually the bored Psychiatrist is going to zero in on his childhood." House is stuck at Mayfield. This is finished.
1. Chapter 1

"I never wanted to be pathetic. When I had my accident, well I was all coked up, but I don't think that really had anything to do with it, I was watching one of those animal cruelty commercials. You ever watch those? Those poor cats, they keep those dogs in small, filthy cages, puppy mills, I saw them hit this poor cow with a skid steer, I think it was a skid steer. A forklift? Maybe it was a forklift," Drug Abusing Paranoid can't stand silence and House craves it.

He constantly picks at his teeth. Some kind of boring compulsion. House never liked psychoses. They were so easy to diagnose. Even his hallucinations are ultimately boring. He was so sure that they had something to do with head trauma, the Vicodin and alcohol, something he had a silver bullet for.

"Hey! Pill time! You want me to get yours? They keep saying no, but they'll say yes eventually," you'd think it was Christmas, House is spared further disjointed rambling about George W. Bush and puppy mills as Drug Abusing Paranoid practically sprints toward the Nurse's Station.

House hates the Thorazine, it doesn't really work and his leg hurts. They cut back his Tylenol 3 (no Vicodin) allowance to 25 milligrams a day , in order to accommodate it. He's noticed that Amber doesn't come around as much, the pain distracts him. Mayfield distracts him. He finds himself wanting to hear about 'that night' from Drug Abusing Paranoid. He doesn't care, but his curiosity has been peaked. He's reminded of the Schizophrenic Mother that wasn't. It was like trying to learn a new language. It brought him joy. He didn't realize it at the time, if he had, he might have laughed at John Henry Giles. Who needs a wife? Who needs friends when you can lose yourself in a puzzle like that? When people don't know what might be real and what might not be, it makes every lie that much more layered. Every statement is a shoddy wooden construct, lashed together with chicken wire. House can't help but cut a wire here, cut a wire there, and stand back to watch it fall apart. He's one of those people now.

While House sits there and feels scratchy, sweaty, and most of all in horrible pain from the effects of his opiate withdrawal, Drug Abusing Paranoid bounces back toward him, happily doped up Valium, Tegretol, and Zyprexa. He holds House's pills triumphantly.

"I told that bitch, I told her we were bros and your leg was broken. You can't just get up and walk around," bros, Wilson, pain.

Why wasn't he tearing this kid apart? He had one overweight lifer on the floor in tears on his second day at Mayfield. He told him that the people outside of his apartment, the ones that watched him, had gotten tired of him, bored. They mostly made fun of him now, sent in their surveillance tapes to _America's Most Boring Delusional Cutters_. He craves silence. With Drug Abusing Paranoid, nothing registers, but at least he can play half a game of chess before losing interest and going over to ask the nurses if _America's Got Talent_ is on at ten in the morning on a Sunday.

Eventually the bored Psychiatrist is going to zero in on his childhood. Most shrinks can't help themselves. He's told exactly one person the truth, and she was a pregnant teenage Jesus freak obsessed with rooms. He knows who he is. He knows what his problem is, at least he thinks he does. He misses not being certain.

This is his version of Hell, if there was such a thing. Locked in a place that doesn't have subscriptions to medical journals, having to share the TV, forever damned, forced to voluntarily read _Harry Potter_ books.

He can't get away from hospitals. Everything seems familiar; the antiseptic smell, the nurse's pink scrubs, the harsh florescent light, but the pace is more languid. People don't get better. He sees a syringe and every part of it is still real to him. He can guess how much fluid is displaced, while sitting across the room, when someone pushes the plunger down on a syringe. He can look at someone's pills and immediately know how many milligrams the crazy is on. He had these horrible moments, before he came, when he thought it was all leaving him. It might have been better if it had, he's lost his mind without really losing it.

Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive is fun, because House can throw a piece of trash on the floor and she has to pick it up. He likes to fold a piece of paper a hundred times and makes confetti to throw on the floor. She knows, she glares at him, but she still has to clean it all up. It really is a minor amusement, not really interesting at all. She comes over and sits down with him and Drug Abusing Paranoid. In his head, Drug Abusing Paranoid is quite the Lothario. He's noticed something interesting, almost like an animal mating ritual. They look at each other through hooded eyes, their body language is visibly agitated. Nobody says hello. He misses having a staff and Wilson to deal with these random personal interactions.

"You like videogames? My mom sent me a PSP," that gets his attention.

"You're thirty. You're mom still sends you toys to help you make friends?"

"Fuck you! I'm twenty eight!"

At Mayfield, hostility is usually met with more hostility. That might be why he tolerates Drug Abusing Paranoid, nothing registers. An older orderly is already cursing to himself and beginning to trudge closer to them. They were interrupting him, he was about ready to go out for his twelfth smoke break of the day. House can smell it, the tobacco smells wonderful, even mixed with the scent of _Degree_ and _Aqua Velva_.

"Guys, guys, don't fight. PSP! What games?" Drug Abusing Paranoid loves anything new.

"We can take turns playing _Vice City Stories_, I'm already up to the part where the coked up guys attack you with those suicide bombs," she pulls it out of her pocket and they huddle around it like pioneers trapped in a blizzard.

"Greg gets to play first," House is convinced that Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive would have turned out fine if she'd had friends in high school.

He likes to play video games because he can let his mind wander. He can focus on more than one thing. The pain retreats to a dull ache, and he's only partially focused on how pathetic this situation is, how pathetic he is.

"I need ice tea," they've never had ice tea and Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive will not shut up about it.

"When Wilson comes to visit me, if I tell him to get you a large regular ice tea with two lemons on the side, from _Chick Filet,_ will you shut up about it now?"

Wilson visits. He doesn't want him to visit, but Wilson comes every week. He doesn't like it. He doesn't like how it seems as though it isn't really them. When he was in rehab, it didn't seem like that. Of course, he wasn't really clean when he was in rehab and that probably had something to do with it. It definitely did.

"I can't promise that," at least she's honest.

"You're friend will bring me ice tea? He's pretty hot. I love his brown eyes."

Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive is quite the little slut. Although, she'd probably be the perfect woman for Wilson. Not even he could fix that hot mess. They'd be together forever.

"He tends to go for sane chicks, you know, he also prefers ladies who stay fit by working out and through proper diet, he steers clear of the ones who puke up their meals. It might be a muscle tone thing, or a yellow teeth thing, I'm not sure," the first part is definitely a lie.

Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive snatches the PSP back, but she doesn't storm off. Something is off. He can't tell if what he said was witty or just cruel. He was aiming for both. He likes Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive because when he says something like that to her, he can never gauge her reaction beforehand. It is almost like playing Russian roulette.

"Yeah. You're so much better than I am," she's sulky today.

"Don't listen to him Melissa. I'd fuck you, I'd tear that shit up," Drug Abusing Paranoid can always be called upon to lighten the mood in an incredibly creepy way.

House laughs. It feels unnatural to him.

"How sweet," he's come to hate Amber's voice, her hair, even her lipstick.

She just appears. He can't diagnose a trigger. He can't find a pattern. His eyes widen slightly, ignored, as his table mates continue their socially retarded flirting.

"They're not going to be able to get rid of me. If you don't figure this out, they're going send you to a place where the people are even more annoying," she sounds triumphant, is he triumphant?

He understands the significance. Wilson dead girlfriend is haunting him, he understands the significance of that. It isn't really her. She's all of his fears, everything he knows, everyone he knows.

"Dr. Williams probably doesn't even want you to get better. He's probably looking forward to your sessions. It's mommy-daddy-best friend issues heaven in there."

"Williams isn't that ambitious."

One of the only good things about being stuck in the nut house is that talking to your imaginary best friend barely registers with anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

Bored Psychotherapist is primarily influenced by the Gestalt Therapy technique, but like most shrinks, she's had to pull bits and pieces of other philosophies into her 'work' when her first attempts didn't set the world sane. Sometimes they sit in silence. He can't detect any frustration from her when he refuses to move the conversation forward. These people are used to failure, one time he caught her writing out bills she had paper clipped to her legal pad.

"I read your story from Dr. Block's writing therapy group yesterday," Block is a quack, if he ever hauls out the finger paints, House is going to get violent.

"Did you like it? I thought there might have been some narrative problems, I don't know if I was as clear as I should have been in detailing your deep and abiding love for Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive, it wasn't just about the sex," it was self defeating, it didn't help him, but he couldn't help himself.

"Do you really think Melissa and I…do you really think we…"

"That you two fuck each other? No. That would make your job easier but no, it was all purely up here," he taps a finger on his temple.

"Amber is up there too, right?"

"It isn't really Amber."

"There has to be some significance to the forms that your hallucinations take. Can you describe your first experience?"

"No," he refuses to go back to that first night..

"What about that day? Can we at least examine your state of mind in and around the time when your hallucinations first began?"

"Is that really remote enough to my current situation?"

"I'm not going to get into theoretical arguments with you. I'll lose, we won't make any progress, it is the definition of a no win situation," she seems to fade in and out, sometimes actively engaging him, other times acting like she can't be bothered.

He can't tell if it is some kind of complex strategy, or if Bored Psychotherapist is just lazy and trying to move the clock along faster. Her pen sits on her legal pad, ignored, and she hasn't stopped smiling.

"I was content. Order had been restored to the Universe."

"You mean to your Universe right? You hadn't resolved the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict or cured cancer. You thought things were changing, and they didn't?"

"Are you gay? There may have been a kernel of truth in the lovely piece of literature I wrote for Block. One of the important parts of my job is noticing things, noticing everything. Observation, seeing things that other people can't see, that really is the most powerful tool a doctor can have. I looked at you and the first thing I noticed was that burn on your wrist," Bored Psychotherapist holds her wrist up to the light, the burn is circular and white, scabbed over, healing.

"Obviously, you don't intentionally burn yourself. You don't go home at night and hide up in your bedroom, listening to _Simple Plan_, crying about how people don't understand you. It could have been a cooking accident but lets face it, you probably aren't married. You're always on time, you're clothes are always perfectly pressed, you don't have many other people making demands on you. Single people don't cook."

"Probably? You don't know? Do feel that maybe this level examination, perhaps the need to go this far into someone's psyche based on a cigarette burn might be a little problematic for you? You could have just asked me, I would have told you," she takes a sip of coffee, it smells wonderful.

"You would have told me you burned yourself with a cigarette. That isn't the whole story. You were chugging water that day and your skin looked a little pallid. Actually the first thing I noticed was that you smelled like a gin mill. Well, no one else probably noticed it but I did," her eyes narrow slightly.

"I was out with some friends. Again, I would have told you that."

"You took a shower, you brushed your teeth, you drenched yourself in one of those horrible body sprays, you probably popped a couple hundred _Altoids,_ you didn't have a couple cosmos with the girls. You got wasted and burned yourself with a cigarette. You don't normally smoke, I never smell it on you. You also smelled like cheap wine and one of those horrible cheap vodkas, like _Vladimir._ Just some friendly advice, as a doctor, don't skimp and buy the cheap vodka, your kidneys and liver will thank you. Anyway, I'm not interested in why you like to go on the occasional cheap liquor bender. Maybe that is what all the cool kids are doing these days. I'm not interested, it didn't take any work for me to see these things, I wasn't looking for them," she smiles and gets up, walking over to the coffee pot.

"Do you find that intrusive? Is it like you're being forced to watch something that you don't want to watch?"

She pushes a couple of buttons on the coffee maker's control panel and the machine springs to life, dosing out the beans and filling a cup with the bitter, European style coffee that Bored Psychotherapist likes. House tolerates it, because the only other option is the goopy, chalky cafeteria coffee.

"I like it. I like the challenge. I like the three dimensional, always changing puzzle," sometimes he gets a frantic craving for Vicodin.

He feels nauseous. He doesn't want to lay down, he doesn't want to stand, nothing stops it, nothing can help. A sharp, throbbing pain radiates out from his thigh. His shoulder feels devoid of cartilage, raw bone. Dripping with sweat, he closes his eyes. His neck muscles seem to lock up and any movement shoots knives of pain through his head. They rest behind his eyes, he chokes back bile.

"Greg? Are you alright? I've got a coffee for you," he takes the mug in his shaky hands.

"The Thorazine isn't working, the Tylenol 3 isn't enough for the pain," he hates that his voice sounds shaky.

"Is the physical therapy helping any?"

"No! Is there a rule in this hospital that only new age crazies are to get jobs? Mommy Issues has no idea what he's doing!"

"Of all the people to give that nick name to, you gave it to Tim?"

"He's obviously pumping away his pain. He only took this job to keep himself in protein bars," if he is told to visualize himself as being one more member of the animal kingdom during their 'sessions,' there will be blood.

They sit in silence for awhile, sipping coffee. House finds himself luxuriating in it, it is one of the few times during the day where he can enjoy true, uninterrupted silence. He has to go to group, and listen to people cry about how their boyfriends left them, about how they lost their jobs, about how they don't know if they'll be able to 'make it' on the outside. As if existence is so incredibly difficult. Bored Psychotherapist has to ruin it.

"They say 'physician, heal thyself', you have to take responsibility for your own mental wellness. The drugs are an important part of the process and we're all working to find the correct balance, but this is about changing your habits, changing your coping techniques, this is about really seeing yourself," she very rarely does this, she doesn't overtly grab the reigns of the conversation.

"Are you going to start choking me? You don't have enough hair to play the Robin Williams role."

"We're done for today. Just think about that. Think about what you're doing to get your life back," normally House would retreat from her office as fast as his wrecked body would allow but now he's scared, because Bored Psychotherapist is so clearly wrong, and what if never recovers?

He walks back out into the unrelenting din of the common room. Shrill laughter, heated mumbling, it almost overwhelms his senses. He finds himself flinching at the primal screams, wrinkling his nose at the smell of stale sweat, feces, people who barely remember their names half the time, and definitely don't remember to wash behind their ears.

Drug Abusing Paranoid is in a bad mood, because it happens to be Thursday and his ex-girlfriend didn't come to visit him again. House isn't even sure if she really exists, because it is one of those tapestries that resembles reality, with exaggeration and fiction thrown in. He's seen a picture but there was something off about it, she looked like a porn star. Drug Abusing Paranoid distracts himself by rambling on about his third favorite topic, salt sand from Okinawa that drastically increases your life expectancy if you cook with it everyday. He's definitely not up for chess.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This is kind of a short update because I'm going to need some time to perfect my H/W interaction. I thought I could do it but now I'm starting to question my abilities.

People with food issues always bored House, unless they were extremely good at hiding it, or it was part of a greater puzzle. They didn't care about their lives, and that kind of all consuming nihilism isn't nearly as interesting as the angst ridden teens who usually suffer from it think it is. Call it being over socialized, call it an ugly consequence of the modern beauty imperative thrust upon young women, but those kind of neuroses weren't interesting unless they were taken to the extreme.

He never really wanted to deal with someone after the diagnosis. He never really wanted to talk to a recovering Bulimic. That sort of thing just didn't interest him. Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive was lazy, that really was her fundamental problem. Acting like an adult is hard, reading a room is hard, interacting with people and making friends is hard, puking up your lunch is easy.

"I wasn't really trying to kill myself," people feel sorry for her, Bored Psychotherapist always brings her a can of soda when they have their sessions (_Diet Vanilla Coke _with one twist of lime, House suspects that she mainly does it shut her up but it lends credence to his lesbian digs and House likes to keep people off balance).

No one ever brings him a can of soda, except for Wilson. He's playing a game of chess with her, trying to teach her as they go. She's definitely lucid enough to play but chess is hard, and Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive can only be bothered with easy stuff, or what she calls 'interesting stuff.'

Wilson liked to refuse to play chess with him, if he was mad about something. In many ways, Wilson's worldview was much more logical than his. People need things from you and if you acquiesce, they'll give you things in return. Sometimes he messed up the ratio but it was supremely logical, unless he was dealing with House.

"Is James coming today?"

He taught her the _Italian Opening_, because even if he quickly occupies the center of the board, her defenses can usually hold up for ten minutes or so. Sometimes he holds back, trying to agitate her and she ends up doing something so brilliant that he begins to wonder if she is secretly a genius. Then he remembers that she's just some random crazy, and random crazies often do randomly crazy things. She's disorganized and sometimes it seems as though she doesn't even apply common logic to her moves. She thinks she's good at chess, because she knows what all the pieces do.

"I know you know what day it is, you aren't that far gone," she staring at the board, totally mystified, like she's trying to find some miniscule imperfection on an X-ray.

"You talked to him right?"

"If you don't make a move, I'm going to call him and tell not to bring your ice tea."

"I think I'm accidentally doing the _Pirc Defense_, can we start over?"

"You're not building a cabinet, we're playing a game. There can be variation."

"I always screw up and you beat me!"

She grabs her rook her and takes one of his pawns. The crazy person strategy is way more fun to play against.

"How do you really know if this is happening or not?"

If Amber is asking him that, he must be thinking it himself but why would he ask such a stupid question? She never just appears, like magic. She always seems to be walking toward him, the path is always cleared and she never seems in danger of bumping into someone, no _Ghost_ special effects are needed. At least she doesn't look like Patrick Swayze, that would really freak him out.

"I actually have several answers to that. My leg hurts. I wouldn't create a false reality for myself where I was in pain," Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive looks in the direction where he's talking, she looks into the empty space, but her reaction unsurprisingly isn't a normal one.

"Crazy people create their own reality. Are you seeing someone? Want me to tell Bob? He might get you more pills," she's focusing on that empty spot, like she wants to see Amber too.

"Also, why would I create such lame companions to hang out with. I was disrobing Cameron with a robot and Cuddy was stripping for me in my real lucid dreams."

"You need me. You know you're in control as long as I'm still here."

"If I wake up in bed, in my apartment tomorrow and suddenly Wilson comes out of the shower, I will immediately apologize for ever doubting you."

He looks down at the chess board and realizes that Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive moved a pawn diagonally, he puts it back. When he looks back up, Amber is gone.

"You can undress me with a robot if you want," Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive bats her eyelashes.

"Sure thing. Just let me take a couple bottles of Dolasetron first," she looks at him, confused and he realizes that he probably should have just said anti-nausea medication.

He notices Wilson first. Emergency Psychiatrist Who Knows Judo and Is Already Completely Burnt Out is pointing to House and Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive. He notices Cameron next, and curses the Mayfield Staff once more for taking his Vicodin.

They've come from the hospital. Cameron either demanded that Wilson let her come or Wilson asked Cameron to come out of some misguided desire to help him. He can't decide which is more plausible. Cameron looks skittish and not at all pleased to be there, so he's going to go with the latter for the time being.

They're both in work clothes. He notices an almost invisible mustard stain on Wilson's shirt and Cameron is dressed in sweats and a cardigan. Wilson is smiling but he looks wary. House needs Vicodin.


	4. Chapter 4

"She's not that much prettier than me! I'd say I have at least twenty pounds on her too," Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive is very competitive with other women, he's not sure why she loves Bored Psychotherapist so much, probably the _Diet Vanilla Cokes._

"When you say that, it is supposed to mean that you weigh twenty pounds more than her. Words mean things, don't forget that," Wilson is carrying his coat in the crook of his arm and balancing a cardboard box in one hand, while he carries Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive's ice tea in the other.

"You have some visitors House, I just need to check that drink." Emergency Psychiatrist has realized that he hates being called Greg.

He takes the ice tea from Wilson, removes the lid off and sniffs it. Vicodin doesn't smell like anything when mixed in tea, LSD is completely odorless and tasteless and Emergency Psychiatrist knows this, but he's burnt out and not spoiling for a fight right now. Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive can be quite the bitch if you don't give her what she wants.

"You didn't put anything in this right? No booze?"

Wilson has been through this several times now. He always brings House a snack: a Reuben, a chipotle barbecue wrap with greasy hand-cut fries, always something good. Emergency Psychiatrist or one of the orderlies always ask Wilson the same questions, and then take his word for it.

"No, We didn't put anything it," who is this we he is speaking of?

He's trying to involve Cameron and she's realized that she's supposed to be smiling and happy, so now her face is contorted into an expression scarier than the visage of Heath Ledger's Joker. Wilson is loaded down like a pack horse, while Cameron isn't carrying anything. She unloads the box while Wilson holds it, looking like he might tip over.

"We got you the twelve piece boneless spicy barbeque wings, from _Popeye's Chicken_, Wilson brought you some journals and some magazines," she's laying things out on the table, presenting them like a _Price is Right_ model.

"What did you bring me?"

"Oh, I didn't really know I was coming until today. I didn't really have time to get you anything. I paid for the chicken though," she seems stricken, like he just slapped her.

"The ice tea is from _Chick Filet _though, right?"

Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive is already getting up to grab her drink away from Emergency Psychiatrist. She checks the label and makes sure they didn't bring her any tainted _Popeye's_ ice tea. Once again, you'd think it was Christmas.

"Thank you so much James," she beams at Wilson.

"Two lemon slices?"

"I almost forgot," Wilson pulls a plastic bag out of his pocket, containing the mystical slices.

"Oh, it truly is the perfect day," Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive practically bounces on the balls of her feet, Wilson looks uncomfortable.

"I'm going to go drink it right now! Thank you so much," she throws her arms around his neck and Wilson, possessing the patience of one of the wimpy Saints, returns the hug.

Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive skips off to her room while Wilson and Cameron sit down. It usually takes him a second to acclimate himself, for them to fall into their usually pattern. Cameron is a wrench in assembly line. They're smiling too much, acting too normal.

"You're making friends," Wilson points out what he thinks is the obvious, probably because the silence was getting to him, or because he knows it isn't true and he expects House to start strongly denying it, anything to get him talking.

"She only wants me for my sweet, cold ice tea."

"You're playing chess," Wilson mentions the long forgotten game on the table.

"You know, Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive is actually pretty good, better than you."

"Please tell me you don't call Melissa that to her face," Wilson does that thing where he smiles while looking horrifically worried at the same time, Cameron's eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he wouldn't have even noticed if he didn't always see everything.

"I wouldn't dare. You see how crazy she is? Cameron, how are things at the hospital?"

Wilson has been pretty mum about the goings on at PPTH. House knows his medical license was suspended but Wilson won't tell the truth about what has happened to his department, and House isn't exactly sure why. He has his theories. He can't always tell when Wilson is lying but in this case, the mechanics of the lie are fairly easy to discern. He won't elaborate on anything, other than everything is fine, Cuddy's fine, and it drives him crazy. It could be almost painful trying to separate Wilson's blanket of misdirection and half-truths from the reality of the situation, it always was. Asking Cameron is much easier, because if something really bad happened, her eyes will open wider then an anime character's, she'll get fidgety, she can't lie to him. He watches for her reaction and he almost expects Wilson to dive at her, pushing her out of his line of sight.

He sees her bottom lip twitch, her eyes are practically dead and her expression is a schooled mixture of friendliness and indifference but that twitch was all he needed to divine the truth. Something bad happened.

"Uh, We really don't think it would be a good idea to talk about that while you're still working on getting better. I don't really know much anyway. I only got back from my honeymoon two weeks ago."

"Did you have to move the sperm to a new secret location?"

"Chase decided he was ok with it," she opens his box of chicken, pulls napkins out of the bag, uncaps the little sides of ranch and blue cheese dressing.

"How's the pain? The detox?"

It feels like the opiates are being ripped out of his system, years of numbed, stifled pain coming back to him all at once, in Technicolor. He knows the detox period is technically over. He's no longer hooked up to a banana bag, he's no longer puking up every half hour, he's no longer thinking about the physics of hanging one's self with one's underwear,. He still feels itchy, sweaty, and the mental aspects of the withdrawal loom over him, affecting him in ways he didn't think they would. He should have expected it, thinking about it now, he was intimately and scientifically familiar with every symptom, he knew exactly what was going to come and when it was going to come.

Wilson always asks him, hoping that the hallucinations are a product of the drug use, a reversible product of the drug use. He always ignores the question.

Bored Psychotherapist is coming out of Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive's room. She notices Wilson, and more importantly, someone who isn't Wilson visiting with him and immediately makes her way over to them.

"Greg, I see you have visitors this afternoon. How are you today Dr. Wilson?"

Wilson smiles, turning on the professional charm. Bored Psychotherapist turns to Cameron, her face a mask of false cheer, clearly digging for information.

"I'm Dr. Gardener, Greg's psychotherapist," they shake hands.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Allison Chase-Cameron. I used to work for House,"

"You hyphenated your name? You know Chase has to be upset about that, don't pretend like you don't know that when he finally brings it up in three years," she looks annoyed, but prefers to respond as if the comment were a joke and not inarguably true.

"I've been practicing medicine under my name for years, plus it would be confusing to have two Doctor Chases at the same hospital."

"Well, I think it is great that you're coming to visit him. Friends definitely have an important role in the healing process," Dr. Gardener, the human pamphlet.

"We're colleagues, actually she's my former employee, I prefer that. If she starts thinking she's my friend, she'll never leave me alone," to Cameron's, or Cameron-Chase's credit, she doesn't flinch like she just brushed against a hot stove, or look sad.

"Well, I'll let you guys finish up your visit, it was nice to meet you, Dr. Cameron-Chase."

Cameron probably won't come back, unless Wilson makes her. He'll eat eight of the chicken wings and save the others for Bulimic Obsessive Compulsive, it might even make her cry.


	5. Chapter 5

"How do the hallucinations make you feel?"

"Annoyed, sometimes she just won't shut up."

"No. How do they make you feel right now?"

"I wasn't thinking about it until you brought it up."

"To a certain extent, you were."

"Aren't you going to ask me about Wilson and Cameron?"

"Are you thinking about them right now?"

"No."

"Then I don't care."

"You do care. You're a shrink. You have to care, I mean your particular brand of witchcraft doesn't put as much emphasis on a person's 'web' of relationships but if you didn't talk about peoples' failed relationships, what would you talk about? How would you fill up time? Your billings would be nonexistent, you'd be homeless by now," Bored Psychotherapist sometimes attempts the 'blunt force' method of moving the conversation where she wants it to go.

"I've got one of those cushy government jobs. I don't have to care about anything. Why don't you just tell me how they make you feel. Then we can relax, have a coffee."

"Is the 'I've got cookies in my van' approach approved by the _American Psychoanalytic Association_," dialogical relationships are important to her but he can't tell if she's faking or not, he should be able to tell.

"Maybe you just thought is was the pills, maybe you thought you shot up a little too much morphine? Most people, they have a bad acid trip and they're running to the hospital. You saw your best friend's dead girlfriend and you let it go for awhile. Now, you have to feel differently. You've detoxed," she's faking, at he least he thinks she's faking.

"Do you ever actually help anyone?"

"Was it a way out for you? Was it comforting to think that you might have really lost it?"

"I hadn't been sleeping."

"Was that a product of your hallucinations, were you sleeping ok before that?"

"I've had trouble sleeping before."

"Have you hallucinated before?"

"Only after too much booze, too much Vicodin. It has to have something to do with that. I've been in a Ketamine coma, I've had head trauma, I've had deep brain stimulation, I've seen things before. There was always a physical, chemical reason. There was always something tangible. That's why this is ridiculous."

"Now it isn't going away. You've had an MRI, our doctors have done all kinds of tests."

"Doctors never screw up tests. Doctors never miss things on an MRI. Your logic is flawless."

"You're even making me paranoid about that kind of stuff. I'm never going to the doctor again."

"Well according to the crazy guy on late night TV, all you need is his book and he'll show you all of those natural cures that the evil medical industrial complex has attempted to keep hidden all of these years. You know that FDA officials carry guns right? It is quite a powerful little cabal. I shouldn't even be talking about it. You might be one of them."

"I've watched that infomercial before, I don't buy it," maybe she's trying to seem extremely human, maybe the forced dialogical relationship is the act and she's just really good at it.

"You always struck as more of a _Six Day Colon Cleanse_ girl."

"I actually prefer the _Magic Bullet,_ that guy's accent is calming, it almost always puts me to sleep. If there is a concrete medical solution to your problems, shouldn't you be getting worse? You said Amber doesn't come around as much these days. I want you to describe what you're seeing through your particular filter. I want to know that this means to you, I want to know where you think you are, because I don't know."

"I was playing the piano when I first saw her, also the harmonica. What does that mean?"

"Maybe nothing. You were alone though, right? Order had been restored to the Universe, you were winding down, relaxing in front of the piano? What does music mean to you?"

"I believe Wikipedia defines it as 'an art form whose medium is sound.' It means the same thing to me. I am quite the rebel, but not even I am immune to the popular definition of words. I tried to get away from it back in the Eighties and no one understood what I was saying."

"You've always been reluctant to talk about the nuts and bolts of your hallucinations, why?"

"Mostly because I don't agree with your theoretical position, and I don't think it would help me. I knew my perception was off when I noticed Amber. Going back over what I did wrong isn't going to help. If I would have spoken up immediately, asked for help immediately, I'd still be here and you'd still be asking the same questions."

"You think I'm tied to one theory? You think I'm trying to force the action, so to speak?"

"I understand that you want me to describe and not explain, but description leads to explanation."

"You sound like you're talking to a three year old, you sound annoyed."

"Really, you just picked up on that?"

"Everything that happened that night had some kind of significance," and he's caught her in a lapse of logic.

"I thought you said everything didn't have significance, sometimes a penis is just a penis? You disagreed with me and now you're agreeing with me."

"People make mistakes sometimes. People fail. Not everyone is going to be as perfect as you think you are," she seems to acknowledge the disconnect which surprises him because most doctors have a pained, neurotic relationship with their mistakes.

"I don't think I'm perfect."

"I think you have a high opinion of your abilities."

"I don't have time to stroke peoples' egos. When I'm right, I expect people to get on board quickly. I don't have time for explanations and hand holding."

"I'm noticing some defensiveness there. That night, what exactly had you proved or disproved that brought order back to your Universe?"

"I caught one of my colleagues in a lie, I solved a case."

"Those were things you did everyday. You were worried about losing your gift of observation and then you found out that it was still there, that you just had a momentary lapse. Looking at our earlier sessions, I don't think you're worried about losing that particular part of yourself anymore. That power of observation is one of the more important tools you employ as a doctor. Why aren't you worried about it anymore? Do you associate your particular gift with something else, maybe pain?"

"I don't worry about kidney failure, I don't worry about cancer, but that doesn't mean that I wouldn't get concerned if I started pissing blood or found a tumor in my mouth."

"Were you thinking about Dr. Kutner at all?"

"It wasn't PTSD. I think we've already come to that conclusion."

"There weren't any biochemical changes in your brain, no reductions in the hippocampus. Of course, the physiology isn't the be all, end all of diagnosing PTSD. I'm just wondering if the original incident, combined with the fact that you did eventually see him might have caused you to reexamine your original reaction. None of your hallucinations were any more important than others, you can't scale these things in level of importance."

"I didn't notice it. It was a big thing that I didn't notice."

"You thought maybe you were turning the corner when you discovered things about your colleagues, when you solved the next case? You've been wrong before though, right?"

"No. I've never been wrong about anything, ever, in my entire life," she seems to ignore the hostility and he can tell they're done for the day.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Well this is finished now. I hope everyone liked it. I had some fun writing it.

"You're pretty creative," she's thumbing through something, a binder of charts.

"You're going to hurt yourself, trying to understand real medicine."

"People said you were a genius, I believed it. Your intelligence seemed fairly obvious from our interactions. Some of these articles, some of these cases, I have to say Greg, you're amazing. I don't even understand half of this. Your logical process, it is so multi-faceted, I'm essentially looking at the answer key and I still don't understand it."

"Don't feel bad. Everyone has a niche in life. Some people cook your hamburgers, some people pave the roads, some people dig sewage ditches, some people clean bird shit off of roofs, and if all else fails, you can always baby sit crazy people. You get a paycheck right? It keeps you in _Vladimir_ and _Sonoma Lights."_

"I've been reading some of your articles. I like to do some research if it happens to be available. I'm going to assume that the dearth of articles from you in the past five or six years isn't an indicator of some diffuse psychological symptom."

"I think that might be a good assumption to make. I mean, it dramatically cuts down on the amount of work you have to do."

"You think I'm lazy?"

"I think everyone here is burnt out and more focused on baby sitting than curing patients."

"How do you feel about your infarction now? How do you feel about the changes in your life."

"I haven't changed," he feels like he's trying to beat a lie detector test, modulating his breath, schooling his posture, he can lie to her and it isn't even that hard.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't know if I'm lying or not, you're just throwing shit against the wall and seeing what sticks."

"Now I definitely don't believe you. You're not blasé enough, I can tell that you're trying."

She gets up and starts fiddling around with the coffee pot. Her whole office is a poor attempt at masking the institutional character of the place, an abysmal failure, the shotgun marriage of institutional functionality and a homey, safe place. Light pours through the large, reinforced windows, spilling out around the worn green curtains Bored Psychotherapist has tacked up. One scream or even a whisper of struggle from the office will immediately produce eight orderlies armed with Adavan.

"I've been actively consulting with the Dr. Hall, and we think it might be best to start you on Lamictal, for bipolar disorders," his Psychiatrist is like a shadow, obsessed with tests and EEGs and apparently afraid of patients.

"If that doesn't work is he going to open me up and look for goblins? I'm going to assume you're diagnosing the NOS subtype, because otherwise the symptoms don't fit."

"Sometimes symptoms don't fit. Sometimes the answers are murky."

This enrages him. It is bad medicine. She's such an idiot, and he has been countenancing her idiocy for some reason, that makes him even angrier.

"You've never asked about my family, whether my priest touched me or if my mom made me wear a dress and take showers with her. What you've done could have just as easily been facilitated at my apartment, with a pair of handcuffs and an immigrant maid to feed and clean me when I started to puke from the detox. I've always wanted to fix this and seems like you don't. There are always answers. If they're murky, clear things up! Do your job!"

He storms off, expecting her to call out for a team to subdue him. No one stops him. He feels powerful, he almost immediately sees Amber.

"I totally agree with you, this is bullshit. I think the lie was good too. Tell her you want to fix it, twist the knife a little bit more. We could make her cry," she seems exultant.

It seems like the pain is sharper, festering, worse due of the mind numbing routine of his current accommodations. He can live with not getting better but he can't live with not being alone. He's never alone here. Logically, he's in an untenable position and he hates that. He hates it when the answers doesn't provide a solution. He feels like a rat figuring out that there isn't an escape from the maze.


End file.
